


Breathe

by Feral_Fic_Writer



Series: Feral's Bitch Rescue [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amputation, Dark Mycroft, Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, Loving Sherlock but also a bit not good, Multi, Mutilation, Past Abuse, Past Bestiality, Past Rape/Non-con, Re-humanization, Rehumanization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4253439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feral_Fic_Writer/pseuds/Feral_Fic_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after being rescued John Watson's still struggling to feel human.</p><p>"Feral's Bitch Rescue" continues with another alternative ending inspired by fireofangels' masterful fic: "Suffocated."</p><p>COMPLETED 10/05/2015</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Light

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Suffocated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/750210) by [fireofangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireofangels/pseuds/fireofangels). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think I'd know to leave well enough alone, but I can't. It's one of my character flaws. So here's another bit of manufactured "comfort" to ease my conscience for enjoying another author's hurt.
> 
> Please note that in the opening of this fic, any line of dialogue with an asterisks (*) after it, has been taken directly from fireofangels' original, "Suffocated." Know too, this is meant to acknowledge the text's original author and no infringement is intended.
> 
> Promise, after this, I'll leave off foa and go bother another writer. Also, if you have a hurt fic you fancy where you'd like a little comfort added... I am open to suggestions.

* * *

John kneels, crouched on the ground, heart pounding itself towards shatter as the words of the man towering over him rain down. He presses desperately into tailored pantlegs, his mind roaring where his throat is unable.

“I’m sorry, John. This is dreadful – we genuinely thought you were dead. You poor thing. Just look at you.”*

Other words follow. But now that he’s recognized Mycroft, it’s hard for John to process them. What he does quickly understand from Mycroft’s tone, and it devastates, is that his situation doesn’t appear to strike the elder Holmes as particularly horrible.

“Look at you, you’re practically a real dog now, aren’t you? I don’t even think you’re mentally very human any more. You’ll never be normal again, will you, even if I got you out of here? You’ll always need help, you’ll probably always crave this, now that you’ve been lucky enough to experience it so fully.” *

All his internal acts over these many terrible months of desperately clinging, of holding his tattered psyche together, keeping even a thread of himself intact, seem suddenly ridiculous. John wants to beg for mercy but all that escapes his collared neck is a whine.

“You have become something rather special, John,”* Mycroft continues, his voice kind but assured, as if addressing a child.  “I don’t think you can come back from this, John.”*

John knows there is truth in this, but he wants more than anything to be afforded the chance try.

_A good soldier overcomes._

“I’m not willing to put my little brother through any more emotional turmoil - he believes you’re no longer with us. In addition to everything else, I’m not willing to change that at this point.”*

It’s only then that John realizes this is not really about Sherlock at all: Mycroft doesn’t want him to come back. “Pet” John is interesting.

 _The sick fuck likes me this way_.

The emotion of this overwhelms and John’s breathing grows labored, alternating between harsh pants and low whines. As much as the epiphany sickens, however, it only takes an instant for him to rearrange himself. Maybe he can use Mycroft’s perversion to his advantage.

John presses his chest low to the floor, battered and plugged ass held high.

_Then take me.  I’ll be good. I’ll be anything you want me to be, just please for the love of God…_

Mycroft is cold, but John knows the man’s not purposefully cruel, even despite what he’s doing to him right now. If he can only convince him there’s a flaw in his logic.

John would give himself over to any other master at the moment; especially one who’d likely keep him where things are familiar. He’d live the rest of his life under Mycroft’s desk with his cock in his mouth, content, if that desk was in London... Stay in a stall on the Holmes’ estate to be fucked daily by the manor’s hounds. Anywhere really, but this horrible country.

_Please, Mycroft, I can be your private pet. Sherlock need never know…_

John’s stomach roils as he licks Mycroft’s shoes again, desperate. Outside of rolling over on his back and showing his belly, which is sure to draw blows, it’s the only way he knows to show his willing submission.

His palms scrabble, useless fingers scraping the walkway's polished concrete as one of his handlers returns and takes up his leash, pulling him firmly away by his thick collar.

“I’m so sorry. But I know you’ll become the best pet you can be for your owner. And that’s your mission now. From me. Be a good boy, and you’ll reap the rewards. Good luck.”*

John can’t believe what he’s hearing, that Mycroft is actually convinced he’s doing him solid, leaving him like this. He should thrash at the madness of it, fight frantically. But with these final words the last fragile thread of his humanity finally snaps.

The hollowness in John’s chest is unbearable, mind going dark as the crate in the trunk he’s picked up and thrust into.

Somehow he manages to draw enough breath into his airless lungs and a howl that sounds purely animal spills from his ravaged throat.

But it’s too late.

It was too late already, even the first moment of the party when he saw and recognized Mycroft’s shoes.

The lid of the trunk swings down like the lid of a coffin and broken, John is swallowed whole.

* * *

Waking in tangled sheets, soaked through with his sweat, he keeps his eyes squeezed tightly closed. Stiff fingers claw the base of his throat, seeking the collar.

It’s not there.

A rough sound escapes him, located somewhere between a sob and a laugh. John chokes on it as he pulls huge draughts of morning-fresh air into his lungs.

Despite the tang of salt and sun, he still waits several long moments before he trusts enough to blink his eyes open. His surroundings are both still strange and yet now also familiar, the morning’s glow spilling into the room through the open doors out to the terrace.

Fisting damp linens, John fears he's screamed himself awake again, but perhaps not. His throat is absent of any other additional sensation than its usual dull ache. No one is roused or rushing. The villa is quiet; the only sound the ever-present "shushing" of waves in the distance.

Heart crashing against the plate of his breast with no less fury than the swells attacking the beach below their sturdy, seaside home, even in the midst of all this evidence, it still takes him a number of minutes to fully convince himself that this, this is his reality.

The other exists only in his nightmares now. Terrible and recurring.

Though Mycroft replays his original role most often in his memoried-dreams, in the past John's psyche has shifted things occasionally. The shoes kicking him into permanent darkness have belonged to innocent others at times: Adler, Lestrade, Donovan, Harry… Even Mrs. Hudson doomed him once.

As awful as these have been, John’s forever thankful that it’s never once yet been Sherlock.

Sherlock.

Suddenly he’s aware of the bed’s emptiness outside his own shivering frame: Sherlock’s habits haven’t altered too much, the man still often rising before first light to get away from the drudgery of sleep. A wave of gratitude washes over John that he’s not there, actually. Sherlock’s been witness to enough of his terrors.

At the same time, his chest aches with Sherlock's absence. He tamps this down, reminding himself that such weakness isn’t helpful. But alone in their sunny bedroom, maybe a moment of vulnerability can be permitted, because everything that happened before the shoes in his dream, did happen.

Memories and the dream meld, frothing back over into his mind and John’s eyes fill, remembering the truth of those final moments after Mycroft cast him back to the wolves, before Sherlock saved him.

While he knows it would have been impossible to orchestrate, he's so often wished that Sherlock could have arrived with his Calvary before Mycroft spoke, before the boot had slammed shut. Because even with everything done to him preceding those moments and everything since, nothing in all he's endured has been more painful.

This same wish fills him with a deep shame because he knows he's lucky to have been saved at all.

So. Very. Bloody. Lucky.

How Sherlock managed to pull it off without Mycroft getting wind of it still flummoxes. And then there's the mad chance of it: his brilliant detective discerning his older brother's unsavory inclinations, seeking a way to blackmail Mycroft for something he wanted, or maybe just because, but in the process, finding the party’s exclusive website with its schedule of entertainments; finding John's former “owner’s” visual contribution to the evening’s program; finding him.

He wishes too he'd been more conscious during his rescue. Even now, there’s so little he recalls of Sherlock’s mercenary team’s ambush.

When the limo was taken in the midst of its long journey home from the party, he remembers only the terrible shattering gunfire, war-sounds filling his ears again. The ricochet of sprayed bullets hammering the car's seated passengers, twice piercing the trunk in the process, and him once.

Yes, it had been a battle. The start of a siege John's been fighting still, ever since.

Sometimes, ungratefully and again with shame, John thinks that in the end, the life Mycroft had decreed for him might have proved to be kinder, ultimately. Certainly easier, as far as fates fall. Because he could have just given up then and not carried on.

But he has. He does. If not for himself, than for Sherlock. It's the only way John knows to repay him and he'll continue on with it as long as seems to satisfy his savior.

John runs his hands through sweat-heavy hair. The dream has left his mouth bitter. But if he has any lingering questions about his former “pet” life or his memory-nightmare being over, all he has to do is look down to see the sheet-twisted stubs of his thighs to know he’s fully in the present now.

With a grunt, he hauls himself up by his arms and sits.

It took six months of therapy to get his hands to open. John relishes every grasp now, though he knows he’ll never hold a scalpel again in surgery. Leaning over, he pulls his wheelchair closer, not ready to bother with putting on legs yet.

Propelled on arms made powerful by many added months of consistent gym work, John swings into his chair with the ease of a gymnast. Looking down at where his legs end, stubbed at the knees, and with his arms so thickly muscled, despite all the counseling he’s had now, it’s still hard for him to resist a canine analogy.

With his stumps, set on all fours, he’s finally been made into the perfect English bulldog.

He releases the chair’s brake and rolls into the modified bathroom. Sherlock’s left the ring up before him. Bladder heavy, he scoots to the edge of the chair, pulls his limp cock out of his sodden shorts, and pisses into the porcelain. At this height it’s all but impossible to miss.

_So much more tidy._

The line of John’s mouth quirks bitter. How many months was it before the novelty wore off of being able to take himself to the loo anytime he wanted?

After flushing, John spins his chair expertly. He’ll brush his teeth later. The depilation process his keepers put him through has left him without the need to worry about shaving his face, or any other part of him, ever again, and he wonders how much time this will eventually save him to spend on what’s left of his life.

Rubbing a hand over his smooth jaw, unfortunately, takes his mind to some of the other things his violators did to his flesh in their efforts to perfect him. Lifting his body just enough to strip off his shorts, John throws these in the hamper. He finds himself staring at what’s left of his legs again as he starts the shower and waits for it to warm.

While he misses them, how they were when they’d functioned; he wasn’t sorry to lose the dragging stumps his kidnappers hobbled him with. The way they’d sliced tendons and nerves, irreparable, leaving his legs more or less dead below the knees.

The doctors had advised that this lack of feeling would leave his limbs open to abrasion and infection. Once his medical mind was returned to him,  John knew what they were saying: that keeping his legs longer would only be postponing the inevitable. Remembering how raw his knees and shins had been all those months he’d drug himself around his captors' abode, it’s a wonder to him now he hadn’t lost them far earlier.

It was over a year and a half after his rescue before the surgeons performed the amputations, however. Sherlock insisting to all it was to be "only John’s decision," waiting until he’d regained enough mental ground to be able to declare what he wanted.

What he’d really wanted was his fucking legs back, but he had to give it to Sherlock: being the one to decide what part of his body was taken away next and when, had been powerful and strangely healing. Although he'd  known he would go through with it the second the doctors had shown him his options in new legs. Told him that if he worked at it, he’d be able to walk again one day. Maybe even run.

Besides, it was that or spend the rest of his life stuck in a chair or crawling. Neither an option.

He’s learned more acutely than anyone how priceless mobility is.

Slipping onto the stool in the shower, John lets the steaming waters sluice over him. He sighs as he soaps himself, knowing he’s being morose today.

The memory-dream does that to him.

He works to shift his mind, fatigued as it is, focusing instead on the sensation of soap over skin. How wonderful to be clean, to be able to clean himself. Such simple things really, but still, each small step forward adds distance between him and his trauma and he’s come so far in the last five years.

Or so everyone tells him.

_A good soldier overcomes._

By the time he’s finished his morning ablutions, donned his legs, dressed, despite the fact buttons remain ever-troublesome, John feels better. So much better in fact, he bets, all put together, if met out on the street, no one would immediately determine he wasn’t whole.

Wasn’t struggling so hard still to be human.

John leaves the bed for their maid feeling only slightly guilty, leaves the wheelchair for later, feeling no guilt at all.

He exits the room he and Sherlock share now, his morning gait slightly stiff, veteran’s limp no longer psychosomatic.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going the "dream" route is a cheat, normally, I realize, but I have tried to balance that out here. After all, it's not as though John's nightmare didn't happen. Anyway, I hope you'll forgive me.
> 
> There are those who will say John couldn't come back from that kind of abuse, but my thoughts are that given his family history he's remarkably resilient and that his military training may have aided in how he handled his imprisonment and his recovery. Not that what he's managed is easy and not that he's no longer damaged, because he is and will continue to be.
> 
> Also, having recently watched "Half the Sky" and seen those stories of real survivors of human trafficking and sexual violence, I am in awe of some individuals' ability not only to endure, but to overcome, despite the seemingly impossible weight of the personal history they must carry with them daily.


	2. Morning

John takes his time navigating the stairs down to the villa’s main level. It’s a pain in the arse for sure, but higher up in the house he feels so much safer. Not so immediately accessible. And at least these days, he can traverse the stairs himself.

His cheeks burn recalling earlier times, when a nurse or Sherlock had to piggyback him.

Stepping off, rounding the hallway and into the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson’s greeting alerts him to the linger of his blush.

“Good morning, John! Don’t you look sharp today.  Seems like you picked a bit of sun too, yesterday. Wonderful.”

They have a routine down now and it’s comfortable for both of them. A small smile and a nod sets her off.

“The kettle’s just ready. Shall I whip up a scramble for you?”

With a shake of his head John steps over to the counter to load the toaster.

“Come now, Dear. Don’t deny an old lady the pleasure of fussing over you a bit.” Mrs. Hudson is at the refrigerator pulling out eggs despite his decline. “You’re as bad as Sherlock these days. And I know with all the physical work you’re doing you need a good fueling.”

John can’t help but watch Mrs. Hudson begin to flutter around the stove. His heart stutters under the weight of his gratitude.

While he was immensely fond of her before, he would die for her in a heartbeat now. This woman who held him while he wept like a child. Nursed and nudged him back into a passable semblance of a man with such kindness.

She joined him and Sherlock about six months after he was pulled out of hell. Sherlock had realized by then, John’s state was not just a series of solvable problems; that some good, old-fashioned nurturing, a thing out of his realm, was needed. And that's just what Mrs. Hudson gave him.

Nurturing… Never pity.

This is what John's most grateful for. Well, that and the fact she never asked many questions: to know he had been taken and tortured was enough for her. He couldn’t have borne her attentions otherwise.

Toast popped and slathered, John takes his plate to the table where his tea waits, as does a notebook and pencil. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t cotton to texting, so they hold their conversations this way.

Picking up the pencil he writes as Mrs. Hudson sweeps over to unload her pan full of eggs onto his plate.

_Thank you._

His scrawl is far more ragged than most physicians’ even, but Mrs. Hudson always seems to be able to decipher it.

“Of course, Dear. Like I said, you can’t start the day without proper nourishment.” She sets the pan in the sink to wash up later and settles at the table where her own tea sits waiting. “Besides, after tomorrow, I’ll be gone for a week, won’t I. 

“Best to fatten you and Sherlock up a bit if I can, so there’ll still be something left of you when I come back.”

She lives with them now, occupying the lower level of the villa, while the upstairs remains the Watson, Holmes’ realm. It’s as close an approximation to Baker St. as they can manage without actually being in London.  She goes back to England occasionally, like she’s doing tomorrow, but always returns, declaring things are too quiet without “her boys” about.

John dips his head to avoid the careful look being cast at him. The thought of her leaving makes him nervous in a way he doesn’t wish to acknowledge. He feels selfish wanting her to stay.  He worries too because of the danger that lurks in London.

“You know, John… “

His mind finishes the sentence before Mrs. Hudson does, knowing she’s going to offer to postpone. The slam of a distant door makes them both look up.  

The fingers still holding his pencil turn white at the sound. John’s other hand grips the edge of the table with equal tenacity.  Despite his awareness of the high stone walls surrounding them, the villa’s complex security systems; it’s still all he can do not to dart under the table.

His posture relaxes as Sherlock sweeps in, but not fast enough. He’s been deduced in a moment.

“You’re just in time, Sherlock.”

“Not eating.”

Mrs. Hudson frowns and rises to get another plate, while Sherlock remains standing, fingers flying over his phone.

John’s own phone buzzes and it takes him a few seconds for his fingers to loosen enough to pull it from his pocket.

 _You had the dream again._ It’s a statement, not a question.

Typing isn’t as easy as it used to be, so John’s texts are most often concise. Sherlock has told him more than once that he likes this: it cuts down on too many unnecessary words.

_Yes_

The truth is tiresome, but without a voice to deny things now, Sherlock has become even more adept at reading him.

_Who?_

_Mycroft_

_You ok?_

_Fine. Just a dream_

Gazing at John now over his phone, Sherlock is clearly not buying it.

“Sherlock, sit down. And you two stop with the whispering. You’ve both got better manners than that!”

Sherlock sits as Mrs. Hudson rises to fetch another beaker. “Do you have plans today, Sherlock?”

Accepting his mug with a nod, Sherlock smiles in a way that's most inappropriate, given the circumstances of his upcoming outing. “There’s been another drowning ‘suicide’ in Sorrento. I’m going to check out. I’ll be leaving soon and gone until tonight.”

Noting the amount of sugar Sherlock’s poured into his tea, John knows he’s keeping his transport lean for thought. Sherlock steals a slip of toast from his plate, however, as a ruse to deter Mrs. Hudson from cooking anything for him.

It works because once she sees this, she rejoins them at the table.

“What about you, John? What’s your schedule look like?” Sherlock offers the question and it holds neither invitation or recrimination for what would be John's inevitable decline. They both know what he’s up for these days.

_Gym_

_Garden_

_Reading_

_Run with Lestrade_

John passes his note over so that Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson can both read it. It’s a humble list, he knows and outside of “with Lestrade” it rarely changes. But routine has become vital to him. And if John learned anything in his time as a dog, it’s the importance of cherishing the simple things most people take for granted.

That’s not to say he doesn’t miss the old times with Sherlock, but crossing over the gates of the villa for his run is pulse pounding enough for him most days. 

Of course, Sherlock still includes him on cases occasionally, bringing home morgue pictures, offering video from crime scenes. Not quite so much anymore, however. Though he doesn’t understand it completely, he’s come to respect John’s cultivation of quiet.

“Maybe Lestrade would like to come with me to Sorrento.” Sherlock says this around an unhappy mouthful of toast, as Mrs. Hudson’s scolding glances at him for just holding it had become too convicting.

“Now, Sherlock!” Her reprimand shifts from merely visible to audible. “Don’t go messing about with John’s schedule. Besides, I am sure Inspector Lestrade doesn’t want to spend his holiday looking at bodies.”

“Don’t know why not. I would.”

John can’t help but snort at Sherlock’s declaration and it’s enough to diffuse the table.  Amicable silence descends until Sherlock can’t sit still any longer. John rises as he does. He quickly writes to Mrs. Hudson that he’ll clear the table once he sees Sherlock off, knowing already, it will all be squared away before he returns.

Out of the villa and into the walkway leading to the front gate, John and Sherlock move side by side as soon as the path is wide enough. Phones out again, their silent conversation is easier for them because this way, neither man has to look at the other.

_Tonight?_

John frowns at the question. He hopes not, but it’s too early to tell.

_Dunno. Ask later._

_You know I don’t mind._

_I do._

_Know or mind?_

_Both_

John can feel Sherlock tense beside him.

_You shouldn’t._

John doesn’t respond to this.  It’s not the first time they’ve had this discussion and he doesn’t know yet how to answer without feeling dirty, or angry, or ungrateful. And so close to his memory/dream, any reply seems even more precarious.

Their silent conversation suddenly shatters. “I hate what the dream does to you, John. Hate him!”

It’s not the first time Sherlock’s said this either.

_He wasn’t the one who kidnapped me._

“No, but he’s the one who left you there! Fucking bastard!”

They’re almost to the gate when John stops. So lost in his anger, it takes the buzz of Sherlock’s phone for him to realize he’s walking alone now. That John has been left a dozen feet behind him.

John knows how enraged Sherlock gets at any thought of his brother. He doesn’t blame him, has been there himself.

But after all, if wasn't for Mycroft being a sick fuck, Sherlock would have never found him. And even though Sherlock forgets it, this villa, the flat in France, the farmhouse in Scotland, not to mention their maintenance, are all being provided for by Mycroft as his part of the brothers' treaty. So, not counting the dream, John's made his own sort of peace now.

It’s not comfortable, but most days it's enough.

From his place behind Sherlock, John watches how abruptly Sherlock's body language shifts as he reads.

_And you’re the one who didn’t leave me, Sherlock. So stay with me now and not with your fury._

John’s typing again when Sherlock backtracks enough to be beside him again.

_Besides, being pissed won’t help your clarity. You’ll need that in Sorrento._

Gray eyes flicker between John and the screen. Sherlock’s lip curls upwards a tic. “I can’t determine if I want to declare you mad or amazing in this moment, John Watson.” It’s as close to humor as Sherlock gets, even with the truth of it.

_Both._

John offers this with a small smile of his own. He doesn’t give them out as freely these days: they cost him too much.

Sherlock’s own awkward smile broadens a bit more as they resume their walk to the gate.  “Either way, you remain ever-interesting.”

John doesn’t feel interesting, still just broken mostly.

Dropping his head, his hands seek his pants' pockets. Walking this way, with his legs, leaves him a bit unbalanced, but then so do Sherlock’s words. They're as verbally close to “I love you” as John imagines Sherlock will ever manage, but beyond words, John has experienced the weight of his detective's love and it fills his heart with such awe and such fear.

They reach the gate in silence where a car waits outside.

“I’ll text later to see where you’re at.”

Though he agrees, John imagines under Sherlock’s keen gaze, his detective has deduced the answer already. Not too hard to do really, his dream days tend to follow the same pattern now. However, he appreciates Sherlock allowing him the appearance of choice in the matter.

With the punch of a code the iron gate swings open.

“See you tonight then.”

John nods Sherlock off, chest tight, pulse climbing, watching him slip into the car. As the vehicle drives away, every inch of his flesh aches for Sherlock’s safety. But, like any good hound, he stays within his own yard as the gate closes.

He sighs knowing there’s another long day of waiting ahead.

As he turns and heads back up towards the house, John decides he might take a bit of a risk and switch his day up a bit; go to the garden first before making his muscles burn in the villa's small gym. He feels a pressing need to see something flourishing.

To witness the struggle of tiny, tender things stretching themselves determinedly up towards the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos, and comments. They're much appreciated. Hope this new chapter pleases.


	3. Afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a time since an update: this chapter took a bit to write. It was all there, just difficult to put together. John's mind in this fic is an uncomfortable space to occupy.
> 
> Thank you for your patience and in the interim between chapters. Thanks also to all who offered kudos, bookmarks, and especially comments.

When Mrs. Hudson comes upon John in the entry, he’s donning his running legs. He stands to open the door for her after making sure both suction sockets are set tight.

“I know this isn’t the right thing to say, Dear; but whenever I see you in those, there’s something almost mythological about you. Like a satyr. “

John offers her a half grin as he follows her out, not minding the comment: there are far worse comparisons to be made. The carbon running blades are top of the line, just like Pistorius’. What’s good for a fellow rugby player is good enough for him, but the look of them does take some getting used to.

It was hell learning how to balance at first, not to mention building up the callous of his stumps. Now the blades bring a spring to his step as they traverse the path together. Mrs. Hudson, off to her tri-weekly expat, bridge game and John on his way to the gate, where Lestrade has texted he’s waiting.

John’s looking forward to seeing Greg. The Inspector has been a true friend, reaching out when he found out he was alive, weathering the gaps in his starts and stops of healing. They correspond regularly via e-mail but John’s still amazed the man takes the time and the travel to visit him at least once a year.

He considers this while he and Mrs. Hudson walk in amicable silence until they’re close enough for her to recognize the loitering figure beyond the gate.

His forearm receives a tap of false reprimand.

“Why didn’t you tell me the Inspector was here?”

Lestrade waves, Mrs. Hudson beams, and John keys in the code. The gates open.

John is pleased to note that with the two of them here, his heartbeat barely quickens as he crosses over the boundary from the villa into the world.

“You’re looking lovely, Mrs. Hudson. Italy obviously agrees with you.”

Never too old to be flattered, Mrs. Hudson’s eyes glow a bit brighter. “I could say the same, Inspector. Something certainly seems to be going in your favor as well.”

John notices also: Greg has dropped about a stone and his color is healthier than he can recall ever seeing it. He stands to the side as a few more pleasantries are exchanged between his friends, then Mrs. Hudson’s ride pulls up and she’s off.

Lestrade throws a light arm around his shoulder as they turn to head off down the road. “It’s good to see you, Mate. London’s long been too quiet without you and Sherlock about.”

Pleased he didn’t wince away, John nods and allows Greg’s arm to linger a moment before ducking out from under it.

“Though I can’t imagine you’d miss the city much. Gah, this place is amazing! Every time I visit here it gets harder to go back.”

The side of John’s mouth quirks and he pulls an expression meant to seem sympathetic, while truthfully, he misses London terribly most days. His exile is part of the two Holmes’ agreement: though he still doesn’t understand all the complexities of it, he’s ascertained this much.

John pulls his phone from his pocket, not wanting to think about England or the price Sherlock has paid for unfortunate attachment to his broken friend… doctor… soldier…

_Puppy…_

The word comes out of that dark place in his mind and he shoves it away.

“You look fit. You’re doing alright then, John?”

It’s harder to keep his façade intact on “dream days” and Lestrade’s looking at him with eyes that tell him he’s already revealed himself too clearly.

Like Mrs. Hudson, Greg only knows that he was taken and treated badly before Sherlock found him again. With captors dead and video footage confiscated, no one knows the full story now, except Sherlock, Mycroft, and himself.

Unfortunately, while Sherlock somehow managed to nab the footage from the cameras at the “beast” party, Mycroft’s participation clearly visible; Mycroft was the one to secure his former owner’s extensive filmed library. The resulting video détente is another part of the complicated web that holds them all together and apart.

For now, anyways.

John hides behind his phone to conceal the shudder that shakes him at the thought Mycroft might someday decide to share any part of those films with the few people still connected to him.

Beyond this, however, he lives in silent terror of the moment one of the brothers truly tires of their arrangements: because he knows it’s inevitable. It’s a fear that grips his guts like a vice every time Sherlock seems distant or he sees a black sedan. But at least now, neither thing sends him into quite such a dramatic panic as it used to.

Still, his thoughts affect him and there’s a slight tremor to his fingers when he taps out his lie to Lestrade and his diversion.

_Good. Everything’s good. But what about you? Mrs. H was right, something’s obviously agreeing with you._

The tactic works and after opening the text on his own phone, Greg’s face lights upon reading. “It’s Molly… Got to keep up. She’s six months in and still running circles around me!”

_Serves you right, robbing the cradle like that. Then filling it again._

The Inspector chuckles at the tease.

John has known about Molly and Greg for two years now. Usually he is so very glad for both of them. Pleased that in Sherlock’s absence, these two good-hearted souls somehow connected and that their pairing seems to be working out beautifully. Today, however, their happy coupledness makes something inside him ache.

Mycroft’s words from his dream/memory come back: _You’ll never be normal again, will you, even if I got you out of here?_

“Hard for me to know which of us is more excited about the baby. I didn’t want to leave her, but she practically forced me to take this holiday. Honestly, I think she wanted a break… Making her crazy, me being so underfoot.”

Greg’s smile is so genuine John has to look away. Thankfully they’ve reached one of the narrow paths that lead down to the beach. He normally prefers them to the streets because he knows he’d be much harder to “disappear” on one of these trails.

Starting down the dusty trail, the silence that accompanies their settling of stride seems a blessing today. John’s breath comes easier as they fall into a lazy pace.

It’s not usually so simple. Greg’s presence helps more than he wants to acknowledge. Years ago, when he first stepped outside the villa with Sherlock, it took him a month to make it to the end of the street without retreating. Nowadays, even when the fear is strong within him, John makes himself run.

_Alone._

It’s just one of the many daily battles he fights. But he persists because a good soldier overcomes. And because, if he doesn’t, then the bastards have won.

It soon becomes obvious Greg’s been running regularly, he’s much better at keeping up this year. John thinks he should have chosen a more difficult trail. He’s become a mountain goat on his satyr’s blades, but he wanted to make sure he didn’t overtax the inspector.

Occasionally, they come upon another traveler but for the most part the path they traverse is empty. He picked this time for his daily runs for just this reason.

A pair appears in the distance, a man an a woman: Americans guessing by the width of them.

It’s only the tourists that generally stare at him these days. Although he consciously chooses a different route each run, there are only so many variations he can make, and over time, no matter which one he takes now, he’s become a regular.

They pass the chubby, older couple who openly gawks. John appreciates it when Greg only offers them a smile and a nod, as does he. When he was first able travel any distance with Sherlock, his detective would shout, “Soldato!” or “soldier” in whatever tongue he deduced likely to be native in both explanation and reprimand at anyone who so much as gave him a glance.

Still, the tactic worked, uncomfortable eyes immediately averted from one so obviously “battle-scarred.”

* * *

When they reach the beach, Lestrade concedes that, despite his improved appearance, he’s temporarily reached the length of his fitness. They settle into seats in the shade of a small stand. Greg orders a beer and drinks it with an ease that astounds John. He gets himself a glass-bottled water and twirls it in his hands for several minutes, trying to make the motion look casual as he examines the seal for tampering.

After all, a doctored drink and carelessness was what had caused his downfall in the first place.

Finally, he cracks the cap and takes a swallow. His heartbeat accelerates even though he feels sure that it’s safe. He tenses with anticipation waiting for his body to tell him differently until Greg’s voice breaks in to offer distraction.

“Still staying on the straight and narrow, John … I admire that.” Lestrade nods to the water. “Wish I could do the same. Might help me get rid of this last bit of gut.”

Actually, John would kill for a beer, but after being pumped full of so many drugs for so long, he and Sherlock now share some of the same unfortunate propensities. And while he longs for dullness, he’ll never allow himself to be so controlled or so vulnerable, again.

He texts, _trying to be healthy._

“Can’t overrate that,” Greg agrees. Then his expression shifts. “Actually speaking of health, John… I’m thinking seriously about retiring from the yard. Molly worries, you know.”

John can tell there’s more, so he waits- something he excels at these days.

“Plus, she wants to keep working.

“I’ve got my years in. And I always missed not being there more at the first for my other kids.” Greg looks away; his voice carries an edge of embarrassment in it. “So… Well, Molly and I… We’ve talked about me being the one to stay at home to take care of the mite once her leave is over.”

Greg doesn’t need to say anymore, John has read the man’s face, knows the unasked questions, the unspoken apprehensions held in his tone. Lestrade’s worried about what people will think of him as a man, what he’ll think of himself: hardened crime-fighter turned nurturer.

While he loves his present keeper infatiguably John still feels far reduced as a man and more like a glorified pet most days. So there’s poignant irony in Greg’s confidence, looking to him to quietly re-affirm he’ll be no less than he is now, than he has been.

 _Lestrade, doesn’t know_ , he reminds himself. And while his secrets make him feel like a fraud, he does what he can to assure.

_You always loved your kids, Greg. Wanted what’s best for them. Now there’s something truly admirable. And Molly will love you the more for it._

He pauses and then adds what he needs to hear himself. _You’ve got a second chance. Not many get that._

“Thanks, John.”

John nods absently as Lestrade rises from the table, his mind caught up in the remembrance of the others he saw in his former master’s videos.

 _Be grateful for second chances_ , he tells himself as he follows.

As they leave the stand and the beach, it becomes his mantra, repeated to the click of his blades as they begin the climb back.

_Be grateful, John Watson_

_For tea,_

_And books._

_For the brush of the breeze on your skin,_

_For a neck free of collar,_

_For whatever you have that looks like freedom_

_Be grateful._

_Be grateful especially,_

_For Sherlock…_

So lost in his thoughts of gratitude, John doesn’t see what’s ahead of him until it’s too late.

* * *

They’ve rigid leash laws here and most people mind them. Only special parts of the beach, which John avoids like the plague, are open for the dogs that are otherwise barred from the shore. So he’s completely taken off guard when he looks up to see the two Rottweiler’s barreling towards him.

The ground comes up so fast the breath’s knocked out of him. If his terror hadn’t rendered him insensible, John would be grateful for that too, since the sudden lack of air puts an end to the terrible wail that’s sirened up in his damaged throat.

The urge to piss or present overwhelms, even as he curls into himself.

He’s unconscious of the questioning snuffles, the harmless intent of the sloppy tongues on the bare flesh of his arms. He hears nothing of the commotion above him. Not Lestrade’s broken Italian or the Inspector's English cursing as he drags the dogs off. Nor does he register the frantic apologies of the young woman whose over-sized pets managed to get away from her.

John can’t breathe, he can’t think. He’s worked on his response to dogs with his therapist, barely made it past immersion therapy with tiny, pocket-sized canines. _But this…_

_This…_

It overwhelms and suddenly he's back at that last horrific party, back in his master’s garage strapped to the bench, back to having his face pressed into the dirt of his owner’s yard while men cheer and the pack rapes him.

Strong hands grip his arms to pull him upwards and John twists away from them and howls with the new breath that’s gathered in his lungs. It breaks the band constricting his chest and he begins to suck in huge rasping gasps.

His prostheses make it almost impossible to kneel, sprawled out on the ground as he is, but his body tries to anyway. Five years of repressed muscle memory and the need to submit in order to limit future suffering overtakes him. Chest pressed atop bent elbows, hips raised, he braces himself for the weight, for the punching penetration that leaves him throbbing hours later.

But nothing happens.

Finally, enough sense returns he realizes the only pressure he feels is a firm but kind hand on his shoulder. Another shuddering breath and his ears clear. Heat and shame fill him more fully than the dogs ever did when he recognizes Lestrade’s voice and that of some strange woman crying.

“Easy, John. Easy. You with me, Mate? I got you. The dogs are handled now. You’re safe, yeah?”

“Mi dispiace, Signore! Miei cani, they’re usually ben educati… so nice… They just got away from me. I’m sorry!” Broken English is further fractured by tears. “They would never have hurt you. My dogs are bravi ragazzi… ah, good boys, Signore… just overly-friendly.

“Please, Signore, are you okay? I’m so, _so_ sorry…”

Somehow John manages to push himself up. He sits and scuttles back, bracing his back against the low stone wall that lines the trail. He presses into it until the rough rock scratches through the thin t-shirt he wears and into flesh, needing the pressure and the pain to hold him, to bring him back. He draws what’s left of his bloody knees up to his chest, as much as his legs allow. He pulls them tighter to himself with abraded palms.

He keeps his head ducked, his eyes closed, fearful of what he’d do right now if he were to open them and see the dogs he hears panting not too far away.

Lestrade hovers above, urging the woman to just take her dogs and go, telling her he’ll take care of him. She protests weakly, offers to leave her numbers, but then finally, blessedly she moves on, taking the dogs with her.

Even knowing they’re gone John can’t bring himself to shift immediately. He remains tucked into himself, tensing when he feels Greg hunker down and settle back against the wall beside him. Lestrade remains silent for a time.

“They had dogs then, the people who held you…”

It’s not a question.

Lestrade has seen enough victims of trauma to understand what’s just happened. There’s nothing judgmental in his tone, just warmth and sorrow. John’s not sure he prefers this over the other. He nods and bites back the rough sound that stirs in his throat, wondering just how he looked, what else the Inspector might understand now.

“Stupid woman. She’s got no business walking animals she can’t handle. Bloody dogs bigger than her almost. I’d liked to of had a heart attack myself seeing those brutes headed towards us.”

While he appreciates Greg’s attempt to allay his shameful response, the words just call the still-fresh image up again, making him shudder. The friendly hand falls on his shoulder once more and he finds himself suddenly longing for a much harder touch.

 _Good soldiers overcome_ , hums in John’s mind, but at the moment it makes him want to scream. He’s humiliated, he aches from his tumble in a way he hasn’t for ages, but beyond that he’s just so bloody tired.

He allows himself to float in his exhaustion for a few more minutes before swimming back up to the surface at last. Dragging a dusty arm over his leaking eyes, only aids in adding grit to them. Finally John sniffs back the snot that’s gathered in his nose.

 _Being stupid, just a couple dogs… Nothing more._ But it is more, so much more. And he knows it.

“You hurt anywhere, John? That was quite a spill.” Lestrade has noted his rally. He keeps his tone casual, but John hears the concern hovering around the edges.

Shaking his blond head “no” to the question, John struggles to master his unfortunate limbs. Once his hands are working again, he gives a tug to each leg to make sure they haven’t been knocked loose before trying to rise. Lestrade stands first and offers a hand down. John accepts though he won’t meet his friend’s gaze.

Legs wobbly from shock underneath him, he’s gone from mountain goat to foal in a matter of minutes. His right hip hurts and he seriously doubts he’ll be running tomorrow. Or the day after, for that matter.

“Okay to head back?” Lestrade waits for John to move first. “We can take it slow. Let me know if anything feels too off and we can stop, yeah?”

 _Greg is going to make a great father._ John thinks as he nods and starts walking, a noticeable limp in his stride.

He waits as long as he can before looking over at his friend. The glow from earlier is gone now, Lestrade looks weighted, worried, normal.

“I didn’t know about the dogs, Mate.”

Feeling the water build in them again, John’s eyes drop at the words and he damns himself.

“If I had, I would have shouted or something. I’m sorry, John.”

Going after the phone that somehow managed to stay in his pocket, John stops at the sting when his bloodied palm scrapes against its seamed edge. His fingers are stiff and heavy, and he doesn’t feel like making the effort of words. So he just shrugs instead.

“Fuck,” Lestrade sighs, seeming to be out of words himself. But it’s about as apt an encapsulation as one could make, given the circumstances. They spend the rest of the long limp back in silence.

As they draw close, seeing the walls surrounding the villa, John’s dismayed by the strong urge to run to the gate and sequester himself inside again.

He huffs out a sigh and runs awkward fingers through his sweaty hair when he sees the grocery girl standing outside the gate. It’s another misstep in his day: Consolata arriving two days early for their weekly delivery, and him being in such a state.

She waves and smiles, but her eyes grow wide when he gets near enough for her to see him clearly. His cheeks heat at her questioning expression.

“Signor Watson?” She shifts the shopping bags in her hands.

“Took a bit of a tumble,” Lestrade supplies. His eyes move back and forth between them, reading them both the way he does suspects and crime scenes. “You think you could sort him out?”

John feels his cheeks grow hotter, knowing that Sherlock’s not the only one who’s able to deduce.

The girl is still nodding when Lestrade turns to him. “That okay with you, John? I mean, I’m happy to stay with you if you’d like.”

John shakes his head and moves over to the keypad to open the gate. He knows what Greg’s seen, knows what the man thinks he’s offering by taking his leave. He's not incorrect. Although it holds no appeal to John at the moment, he makes a slight shooing motion with his hands.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Greg takes in his friend's battered appearance once more. “Whether we run or not. I’ve got a week here, you know.”

The nod he gets in response seems to satisfy.

“I’ll text you later.” Lestrade smiles at Consolata, his grin knowing but not lewd.

“I’ll leave him in your capable hands, Signora. Arrivederci.” Then he’s off at that constable’s amble of his, headed towards the taxi stand a few streets over that will carry him back into the heart of the city and his hotel.

There’s a twist in John's stomach, already thinking about how he’ll navigate tomorrow with Greg. If there will be questions or awkward silence while they pretend that this afternoon never happened. Then the rustle of bags beside him reminds he has other things to navigate at present.

He finishes tapping in the code and then reaches out a hand to take one of Consolata’s bags from her.

Dark eyes note the condition of his palm and she shakes her head in response, keeping her burdens intact she moves in and heads up to the villa. John sighs heavily and follows after.

* * *

An hour later finds groceries put away, scrapes attended, and John on his back on the bed in the first floor’s spare room. Gauze-wrapped hands rest lightly atop the bronzed hips that undulate above him.

This position, with her riding him, is the only one they’ve ever engaged in, partly because without his lower legs, it’s difficult for him to leverage himself in other configurations of joining. But he also supposes that this way, with her back to his stumps and her blocking his own view of them, this way, it’s easier for them both to imagine it’s a whole man she's fucking.

Eyes closed, with his head back on one of the bed’s soft pillows, John allows her to grind against him. After what happened with the dogs, he wasn’t even sure at first that he’d be able to get hard at all, but Consolata’s sensual insistence eventually roused him and he was too weary to deny. This act between them, another part of his weekly routine, though today he doesn’t feel the usual sense of relief that accompanies the delivery girl’s visits.

It doesn't help his ardor any that he knows her early arrival this week is no mistake.

 _Sherlock’s getting sloppy,_ he thinks.

Or maybe his detective has just tired of the subterfuge. The thought of Sherlock, however, and that he cares enough to provide what he cannot submit himself to, makes John’s reluctant cock pulse with new energy within the slick walls that hold it.

His relief is short-lived, when Mycroft’s voice rumbles in his mind severing his pleasure. _I know you’ll become the best pet you can be for your owner. And that’s your mission now. From me. Be a good boy, and you’ll reap the rewards…_

Frantically he tries to shift his thoughts before the words soften and shrink him. When he fails at this, his hands, burning only slightly, grip the curved hips that ride him and John begins to thrust upwards.

His eyes open, taking in the sheen of sweat on small, tight breasts. Consolata’s long throat bared as her head tips back, mouth open with a pleasured gasp as he begins to piston into her.

“Sì, ci! There… Non fermarti! Harder!”

There’s something in her breathy commands that incites. Not for her pleasure but to release the sudden fury that burns within him, John complies, hating himself even as he pulls her forward, down towards him. He drives his hips up, his cock deeper. He feels her cunt clench around him as he jacks into her and she comes.

He stills as her tightening momentarily make it difficult to thrust. Not that he minds much- the fire that sparked so brightly a moment ago has just as quickly burnt itself out.

All too clearly John knows it’s not possessing he really needs in this moment, not to penetrate. Sick with the ache that suddenly grips him, he submits to Consolata as she revives and begins to rut up against him again, wanting to bring him off.

Her eyes are closed in lust and concentration and John watches as she pumps and flexes. It’s amazing to him just how much her motions mimic a stud-dog in rut. Shameful heat flushes his face and the blush surges almost all the way down to his navel when it’s this thought that finally makes him come.

Consolata only stills after he stops pulsing within her. She rests a few moments and gives him a satisfied smile before climbing off.

“Good?”

Pulling the damp sheets up over his hips and all that's absent beneath them, John nods. He works to keep his face peaceful. It’s harder to lie without words.

She nods now too, seeming pleased and presses a quick peck to his cheek. Never lips. John made it known early on he wouldn’t kiss her. His lips are reserved only for Sherlock and while she doesn't know this, she’s never pushed the issue since.

John watches the perfect curve of her ass as Consolata crawls out of the bed, grabs her clothes and disappears into the adjoining bathroom. He doesn’t really breathe fully again until he hears the shower start. Only then does he pull back the sheet and strip the sticky condom off, flicking it into the bedside bin.

He wills his insides to still. He should feel hazy, sedate, but even after all the soft touches, the coming, he only feels emptier. His gaze drifts over to his phone on the bedside table. He reaches for it and enters the message.

_Tonight after all. Come if you can._

_JW_

He stares at it until his ears register the shower being shut off. He hits send and rolls over onto his side, wincing at the pain that flares in his hip at the pressure. His back to the bathroom door, he doesn’t look over when it opens and Consolata emerges. He remains still as she quietly slips out. A minute later John uses his phone to open the gate for her.

He’s just finished this when his phone buzzes with Sherlock’s answer.

_Of course. I’d already planned for it._

_SH_

He doesn’t answer back. John just hugs his phone tight to his chest with a bandaged hand. Of course Sherlock had planned for his call… It’s a “dream day” after all. Sherlock must just have been waiting, wondering how long it would be until he realized the futility of trying to handle it otherwise. Closing his eyes at last, John sighs.

Resolution secured, the tension finally ebbs from him and in its absence, sleep rushes in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few quick notes.
> 
> First, I know that people don't like it when John dallies with others, but in this fic, John and Sherlock are lovers, just unconventional ones. They will get together in the next chapter, but I have always liked a bi-sexual John and am enjoying the notion of a still relatively asexual Sherlock. A Sherlock who loves John but is averse to body fluids and to the idea of compromising his transport with unneeded sensory distractions. He loves John as he can and is not so sentimental or tied to conventional moral codes as to deny the one he loves what he feels his partner might need beyond his own physical capabilities.
> 
> Second, my apologies to anyone who actually speaks Italian if I have mangled your language. Though I suppose I could say the same to those of you who speak the Queen's English as well. American English and rudimentary Mexican-Spanish are the extent of my linguistic mastery (if one can call it that). All this to say, any missteps in translation, I leave at the feet of Google.
> 
> Last, I picked "Consolata" as the name of the girl purposefully, it translates to "consolation" which is her role in this fic. Whether this is her real name or one she's been given by either John or Sherlock, I'll let you decide. I also, played with the notion of calling her "Cesarina" which I read translates to "severed." In the end I decided to go with the kinder implication.
> 
> Anyways, that's about it. One more chapter that will be all John and Sherlock and then an epilogue which will end the Holmes' treaty for good(?)


	4. Evening

John stares at the back of his hands as he waits.

The abrasions on the knuckles of his left have already scabbed. Turning the hands resting in his naked lap over, his palms are a different story. He hopes the _liquid-skin_ he painted on them will keep the ground-burned flesh from weeping through. 

The thought of leaking fluids causes his brow to dip. There’s a blanket between him and the sofa. It should be enough, but sometimes the lubricating suppositories he uses slick him a little too well. Though “too well” is not really possible in this instance.

He gives an unconscious shake of blond head. Never after his rescue, did he think he’d find himself employing such tactics as a way of maintaining his “recovery.” John shifts where he sits: it makes him uncomfortable, this way of coping he and Sherlock have come to. His subtle twist twinges unhappy muscles, reminding him just how truly stiff he is. He was barely able to move, in fact, when he’d first woken from his doze after Consolata’s departure.

A new frown flits over his features, knowing he’ll have to be diligent to keep the true extent of his aches from Sherlock. Otherwise, Sherlock’s not apt to allow them to proceed and John’s not about to waste all his preparation. What’s more, though he’s loath to admit it, he needs this too much right now.

Why else would he subject himself to the very things his captors so frequently forced on him?

His cheeks heat, recalling the enema he administered earlier, the suppositories, the series of stretching plugs. Though it’s different doing these things to his own body, it stirs up memories nonetheless. It would be impossible for it not to.

A shiver trembles him that has nothing to do with his exposed skin and the cool night air of the upstairs study. He shifts again and the plug that he’s currently wearing presses deeper into him. The fleeting spark of sensitive nerve endings only sharpens his hunger.

His ears twitch at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Something in his low belly catches on that razor’s edge between pleasurable anticipation and not. Goose bumps rise to the surface of muscular arms and prickle his shoulders when he hears the shower in the next room start up. For a moment, John imagines he can feel his toes curling. It strikes him so real he has to look down to confirm the sensation is phantom.

By the time the shower stops he’s lightly panting. His heart no longer races though, having settled into a steady canter. It surges again, however, when the study door opens and Sherlock enters, hair still damp and dressing gown loosely belted over the lovelier silk of his skin.

Without saying a word, Sherlock travels to the fireplace. Within moments he’s unlocked the mystery of fire and a small blaze crackles in the grate. The light flickers and warms the glow of the single table-lamp illuminating the room.

“Mrs. Hudson has turned in,” Sherlock murmurs. “Early flight.”

John’s eyes are back on his hands as he nods. It doesn’t really matter, she never comes upstairs after eight and even at the height of things, he’s never loud.

Sherlock steps closer and John can feel the heat of the shower still caught in his detective’s skin. Long fingers tangle into gray-blond hair to lift his head.

Steel meets sky.

“Lestrade called this afternoon. Concerned.”

A dismissing huff is John’s answer, though his gaze averts. He closes his eyes as strong hands grip his shoulders and push him onto his back against the cushions. He goes easily, submitting: because it’s safe; because it is what he wants; and because he knows that since he’s been informed on, Sherlock won’t be settled until he’s investigated.

Musician’s fingers stroke over his body, tuning him, testing for any string that might be frayed enough to snap in their upcoming performance. But it’s the scalpel of Sherlock’s eyes that John truly feels. His soul flayed along with his skin as he’s deduced.

Every inch of him observed; he presses his closed lids tighter; grits his teeth. He counts the seconds in his head praying Sherlock will finish before he can no longer take it. No one, not even his captors at the height of their power, ever laid him so bare. And as long as there’s still breath in him, John has vowed no one else ever will.

Only Sherlock.

Large hands touch gently as Sherlock turns him. John tightens his jaw to stifle the wince when his hip is pressed with a warm palm. He feels the frown above him and grunts. It’s as close to “I’m fine” as he can offer. A heavy breath of relief whistles his nostrils when the halted palm continues, smoothing down his flank and then lifting off well before the start of the stump.

He’s sat up again and the cushion dips as Sherlock settles beside him. Blue eyes slit open and John sees the robe has slipped off Sherlock’s shoulders. Only the belt at the waist holds the garment to him now. The second Sherlock stands it will likely fall away, leaving him wondrously naked.

The base of John’s jaw is gripped and lifted; his chin rises to follow. Dark curls tickle his nose, the side of his face. Sherlock lowers his head and John’s breath becomes heavy. Low growls hide in his exhalations. And when that beautiful, acidic, sarcastic mouth dips down, Sherlock exercises a different kind of biting commentary on the tender skin of his throat.

John tips his head back further until his neck’s pulled so taut it leaves his breath ragged, knowing that Sherlock’s lips and teeth and tongue won’t still until they have traveled its circumference. When the last nip “clicks” the catch closed on this invisible collar, finally, some of the tension leaves John’s shoulders.

He allows himself to fall slowly forward, until his forehead rests against the wonderful solidity of Sherlock’s clavicle. Owned again, a hundred tiny knots he didn’t even know he held begin untying throughout his body.

Strong fingers stroke his nape and warm breath stirs his crown. John lifts his head. The bridge of his nose rubs the underside of Sherlock’s lightly-stubbled jaw. He nuzzles his gratitude. Sherlock dips and firm lips brush against his own. Barely at first, but then the pressure builds. John’s mouth parts slightly, opening himself.

Offering. 

It’s an offer Sherlock seldom accepts, but he doesn’t refuse either when John’s tongue flickers out to taste him. Restrained but not rejecting, Sherlock allows John to lick into his mouth, to slice his tongue on cheekbones and sharp jaw, lap along the length of his neck.

John continues downwards.

He keeps his hands quiet, resting on the cushions. The tip of his nose brushes against a dusky nipple teasing it to hardness. Then he licks here too. Gentle teeth worry the flushing bud until Sherlock growls. John’s hands move then, but only to support as he leans over to share his attentions with the other side of Sherlock’s tight chest. After this, with a little careful maneuvering, he slides off the couch. Shuffling between Sherlock’s thighs, he positions himself.

He presses tender kisses to the tip of Sherlock’s cock until he feels fingers wend into his bangs and tighten. One last gentle peck and then he takes the warm, soft flesh into his mouth. He swallows as much of it as he can and stills. Cheek resting against the solid muscle of Sherlock’s thigh, John closes his eyes. The fingers in his hair release and begin to card instead of hold.

John splits his focus on this light ruffling, the cock in his mouth, and listening.

There’s the sound of the breeze against the window pane, the pop and crackle of the hearth; Sherlock’s quiet breaths, broken with the occasional appreciative hum; and the steady thump of his own unrelenting heart.

That’s all.

At the moment there’s nothing else in the world. John’s mind is blissfully blank. The whole universe collapsed into just holding and breathing, and it’s such a relief it makes his eyes well. How long they sit there like that, together, he doesn’t know, doesn’t care: it’s Sherlock’s job to measure the minutes.

And he does.

The hand petting stops at that precise moment (accurate as always), when the stretched muscles of John’s jaw and his stumps begin to burn in a way that pushes just beyond the hazy edge of “comfortable.”

He has gone so deep it takes a tic for John to rouse. Hands leave his sides to settle lightly atop Sherlock’s thighs. They push the open splay of gown wider. He rolls his lips under to wet them before he begins to suckle. Sherlock’s penis responds eventually to the pull and the slide of wet, hot against it.

When his brain comes back online the momentary pleasure of knowing he’s coaxed Sherlock’s reluctant cock to fullness evaporates, as John’s mind informs him it’s friction, not desire, the flesh he’s tasting is responding to.

“No, John. It’s you. You that fill me.”

John starts and his cheeks heat at both being read so clearly in this moment, and in the surety of the deep voice above him. Nevertheless, encouraged by the words he sucks harder, faster. His chest glows with warmth when his actions are rewarded and Sherlock releases the barest bit of fluid onto his eager tongue. It’s mostly tasteless, but so rare an occurrence John savors it like nectar.

Given this, he’s hard pressed not to growl when the hand still on his head begins to push him back, making him relinquish his prize. But the rumble shifts just short of a purr when Sherlock slips off the couch to kneel beside him and catches his mouth with a sweet, slow kiss.

“Now I want to fill you.”

This whisper is dragged from mouth to ear as it follows Sherlock’s lips. The tingle of warm breath on his skin, as much as the words, causes John’s filling dick to visibly twitch.

Without saying anything more, Sherlock ushers him over to the heavy foot rest that sits in front of John’s favorite chair, its bottom half already draped with a towel. Solid, its leather is soft and worn. The length and the height of it perfect, and leaning himself over it, John remembers the day Sherlock installed it.

Shoulders, neck and hips supported; he turns his head to the side, rubs his cheek against another less fortunate beast’s skin and closes his eyes again. Sherlock momentarily leaves John to arrange himself as he gathers up what they’ll need from a locked drawer in the secretary for this next bit of their night.

A slight hump of hips against the cushioned top and John is fully settled. His stumps hang just bare centimeters above the floor, spared from having to hold him up. 

Sure hands grip his shoulders but then still. It’s frustrating because what John really wants now is hard and fast and punishing. He knows better than to rush Sherlock, however. And at present, his only task is to submit.

It’s not easy. He flinches and tightens, despite himself when one of Sherlock’s hands lift to rub through the hair at the back of his head. Kneading down from here, John can’t stifle a groan of longing when his neck is scruffed. The fingers holding him here pulse between rough and tender in response, and another layer of tension is stripped away from him.

Fingertips travel, they touch and brush as Sherlock deciphers the braille of John’s body, reading shoulders, ribs, spine, while John slumps deeper down. Fleshy prose or boneless poetry, only Sherlock knows what to make of the text of his scars.

Lips press to the bullet’s memorial that adorns John’s shoulder, then flutter over a dozen other marks tasting the traces of old pain. In between alighting, Sherlock’s mouth offers wordless whispers that hum along John’s skin and carry the bittersweet feel of praise.

Then finally there’s the glorious gripping of fingers on the cheeks of his ass and John braces for the next touch. But instead, Sherlock begins to kiss down the back of his thigh.

John stiffens, suddenly unmoored.

This is new, and he starts to kick in protest when the worshiping mouth continues southward. The tightening of firm fingers on his ass cheeks stills him. A broken sound escapes John’s throat when he feels the brush of lips at the quick of his stump. The hands that have been gripping him so tightly loosen and begin to rub over his ass, his thighs.

One last sucking kiss pressed to the side of John’s knee, and then Sherlock begins kissing upwards again. This time John can make out the whispers between the gentle landings of Sherlock’s lips and it makes his breath catch.

“Beautiful…”

“Brave…”

“Man of mine…”

“Enduring…”

“Unconquerable…”

Only the middle one rings true in John’s heart and even part of that, the "man" not the "mine," strikes him as questionable, but he can hear the strength of Sherlock’s convictions in every syllable.

It’s too much.

John slips his arms from his sides. His hands reach for and clench into the edge of the foot rest. Meanwhile, Sherlock continues this benediction, kissing up, over the base of John’s spine and down his other leg as well. John holds on, knuckles growing white as he weathers the sensation, because if he falls over this edge it will surely be the end of him.

Lungs burning, he gasps with relief when Sherlock’s mouth kisses upwards again and finally ends its circuit just above the crack of his ass. He feels his cheeks spread once more and while he knows that Sherlock’s mouth won’t follow, it’s no less powerful when a warm fingertip begins to trace the taut flesh of his hole around the plug he’s wearing.

Slow and teasing, light and then harder.

John struggles not to whine in frustration. He’s glad he’s able to master himself though, otherwise he might have missed the quiet “snick” of plastic as Sherlock pops the cap on the lube. He quiets, straining to hear the liquid sounds of Sherlock stroking himself; holds his breath when other fingers join their teasing brother to work the plug out of his ass.

They press and slide, a glorious precursor to the faster friction that is soon to come.

More than once John feels the sweet rub of silicone over his prostate. He hates himself but can’t help but lift his hips, pressing back, seeking. Then he feels the tug at his ring and that last slide that leaves him hollow. However, no sooner than the plug is pulled from him does John feels the hot, blunt head of Sherlock’s cock against his fluttering hole.

Wide as he’s been stretched, Sherlock slips easily in despite his girth. Though the thrusts are shallow, there’s no hesitation, no break between his breaching and Sherlock’s next successive flex of flank. John knows that Sherlock is intentionally mimicking the behavior of a stud dog, once it’s found its mark. That his love knows to do this, and does it, is simultaneously hateful and profound.

Suddenly gripped hard; hands like iron band John’s pelvis. He bites his lips at the pain that blooms where his bruised hip is grasped, but he’d snarl if Sherlock were to let up at all. Trapped between belly and towel-covered leather, John’s swollen cock plumps even more.

Within the slapped cadence of flesh striking flesh, Sherlock’s pace builds. Beyond the general pulse and pressure, past the friction, there’s so many sensations for John to lose himself in: the prickly tickle of wiry hair again sensitive skin as Sherlock bottoms out, the fleshy strike of balls against his taint and occasionally his own sac as he’s driven into.

Then the hands on his hips suddenly release him. John’s startled by yet another new thing when he feels the whole of Sherlock’s torso draped, slick and hot, over his back. The second he tenses at this, the body atop his own bears down harder. Lean arms slip under his armpits and hands grip his shoulders from beneath him. Sherlock’s chest is still, while his hips stutter like a jackhammer.

There’s something about the weight, the strength of Sherlock’s embrace, that makes John’s heart ache. It makes the act they’re engaged in just as penetrating as before, but no longer quite so punishing, despite the fact the speed and depth of the ceaseless thrusting accelerates.

John twists his neck to position himself face-down; his forehead to pressed to the leather. The scent of it, nose-deep into the hide, stirs thoughts of collars and straps. Suddenly it’s not the building tension in his belly that makes John shudder.

A sharp pull of teeth at the lobe of his ear brings him back.

“Stay with me, John.”

The words are hard to decipher, to pluck out from Sherlock’s entreating growl. But John answers, lifting his hips as much as he can to grind back against the narrower ones above him. He knows he won’t come from this, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

Once again Sherlock moves. Hands leave shoulders to rest over John’s own. Fingers entangle and the weight lifts slightly from John’s back. The length of Sherlock’s legs and the height of the foot-rest giving him multiple means of leverage. There’s the cut of a sharp chin over John’s shoulder, a cheek pressed against his own. John angles his head just slightly and his and Sherlock’s mouths are so close it’s as if they’re sharing the same breath.

They’re both gasping and growling now; Sherlock rutting without mercy. He lasts much longer than any canine cock John ever took, but for a man, Sherlock comes quickly. He always has: unused to such fleshly stimulation.

John hears the coming climax, inhales Sherlock’s air as it’s gasped out. He tastes completion when his mouth brushes Sherlock’s bottom lip as it quivers with the grimace of coming.

They still then, and John wills himself to stone, knowing how over-sensitive Sherlock is after he spends. He drifts in heavy, hazy warmth underneath the comforting blanket of his detective’s body. Minutes pass and then at last, Sherlock slips off and out of him.

Again, no sooner is John’s hole empty than something fills it. This time fingers.

Two to start. Long, thin and knowing, they press in. John moans as they glide over “that” spot. He jumps at the chill when new slick is added along with another finger. Working ceaselessly, three becomes four. His breathing accelerates,shallower and shallower when he feels himself worked open and Sherlock’s thumb joins the fray.

Beneath him, his waning cock revives. He grunts softly, embarrassed by the animal sounds he makes that should be “Yes!” and “More!” and “Please!” Fortunately Sherlock is a more than able translator.

John feels the rim of his ass contract as additional lube is squirted across the back of Sherlock’s large hand while it rubs him. At the same time, he can feel the hot slick he inserted into himself earlier, leaking out now as his asshole flutters around the knuckles relentlessly pushing in.

Tears fill his eyes at the stretch of Sherlock’s false knot. He pushes back and relaxes that extra millimeter simultaneously, and suddenly finds himself finally, fully, filled. The moment it happens and Sherlock’s whole hand, at last, slides into him, they both release the breath they’ve been holding.

Sherlock extends the hand not ensconced to rest the flat of his palm across John’s low back. While not entirely proficient in acts of comfort, he rubs there soothingly. Inside, he begins to lightly pulse his fist, making sure his thumb rubs in just the right spot.

John burns with the shame and the thrill as he's pumped into, fisted until he spills not just once, but until he’s lost, breathless and wholly emptied.

Once the spasms subside, he's left languid. Still panting lightly, John is aware of when Sherlock works his hand out him, of the gape of his aching ass, the lightness of his equally aching sac, but little else. His limbs are so heavy he can barely hold on when Sherlock pries him from his rest, lifts and shifts him over onto the blanketed couch.

* * *

 

Not unusual after their rare couplings, John finds himself alone in the study, lying on the couch. He groans when he tries to roll over and a dozen new and stronger aches awaken with him. 

How much time has passed, he can’t determine, though its been long enough that the small fire Sherlock started has burned itself out.

Running unwieldy fingers through his bangs John realizes he’s been washed up at some point, but he doesn’t remember it. That’s all right though: there’s more than enough that he does recall. He gathers Sherlock’s, dressing gown that’s been draped over him tighter around.

As he rouses more fully, John is aware that tonight the usual respite he feels is absent. Then the stillness of the study is broken and his quiet breaths pull short when Mycroft’s voice joins him once again.

_You’ll always need help. You’ll probably always crave this, now that you’ve been lucky enough to experience it so fully. You have become something rather special, John.*_

It’s almost another hour before his shame and self-recrimination have reached a manageable level, one that allows him to join Sherlock in their shared bed. Sherlock’s eyes open quick enough that John knows his detective wasn’t sleeping. Covers are pulled back as he wheels over. He transfers to onto crisp linens, his movements much stiffer than usual.

Plucking the folded robe from the arm of his wheel-chair he offers it back to Sherlock with a nod of thanks before he lies down. Sherlock takes it with a light frown on his face. While he can’t see it, John feels this frown deepen when he tucks in, setting his back to Sherlock.

Without looking back John feels Sherlock lay the dressing gown aside. A weighted gaze comes to rest between his shoulder blades. It’s heavy but nowhere as crushing as what’s resumed residence within the cage of his chest.

John closes his eyes.

They flutter open in surprise a moment later when the mattress sighs and Sherlock’s lean body presses tight against his own. Thin, strong arms pull him in. John tightens at the touch but Sherlock’s grip doesn’t loosen.

Finally he turns his head. The expression on Sherlock’s face arrests his breath. John wants to look away but the steel in the gaze that meets him is magnetized.

“We are men, you and I, John Watson. In everything we do together. And in everything, you are the man I love. Just as you are. Have been. And will become. 

"Without exception."

Tears sting and blur the truth John sees in Sherlock’s eyes. The arms surrounding him lighten just enough for him to roll over. John dips his head down under Sherlock’s jaw, slides an arm around him as well as they gather to each other, chest pressed to chest.

“Please tell me you know this, John. I would hate to think I have otherwise been enticed to share my bed with an idiot.”

Against the salt of Sherlock’s skin John offers what now passes as a light chuckle. He feels a kiss pressed to the top of his head as his laughter shifts into silent sobs.

“I thought as much,” Sherlock sighs. “Well, at least you’re _my_ idiot.” The embrace around John tightens. "I know you were fond of saying, 'a good soldier overcomes,' John... but, in my own opinion, sometimes a good soldier should allow himself to be overcome too.“

As much as he hates it, this only makes John weep harder, but this is the true release he's needed. He lets himself go and in the midst of it he can feel his tears dissolve Mycroft’s words and the dream. He knows his memories will prove harder, but for now it’s enough.

John chokes in the rush to take everything in and let it out simultaneously. Warm lips brush against his cheek. They track through his tears to whisper in his ear.

“Breathe, John.”

At this soft command something in John’s chest opens. His lungs sing freedom as he pulls air in with a new sob. For the first time in ages his breath is an easy, unhindered thing. Unconscious. Even though he’s still under the weight of his past, his unknown future, in this moment he's no longer suffocating.

Sped by the relief of this, within the shelter Sherlock's arms, he soon slips into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope I handled this right... Balance is precarious for me at the best of times. Just one chapter left. There will be some comeuppance for dark Mycroft there.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's hung/ is hanging in here with me, especially those of you kind enough to kudo or comment. This is my least read story, so I especially appreciate everyone who's given it a chance.


	5. Darkness Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first finished FF here on AO3! Hooray! Now I just have six others to complete.
> 
> This final chapter is dedicated to IantoLives. She/he asked for Mycroft comeuppance and I'd not thought of it until Ianto's suggestion. Thank you, Luv.
> 
> Just so you know, the first 3/4 of this chapter are Mycroft centered the last 1/4 goes back to John and Sherlock.
> 
> Also, once again * indicates a section of text taken or very closely aligned with Fireofangels' original story, "Suffocated."

Lestrade steps out of Heathrow greeted by exhaust and gloom and a black sedan idling illegally at the curb. He’s not going to imagine how Mycroft knows he’s returned three days early when even Molly doesn’t.

The driver emerges to open the door. Lips pulled into a grim line the Inspector gives him a nod and ducks in, pulling his luggage behind. As he settles onto the plush leather, Greg gathers his coat about him, intent on not to being the first to speak this time. The result is an uncomfortable silence that stretches far too long.

While it’s all he can do to keep from squirming, across from him, Mycroft sits, statue-still, his face its usual mask of privileged aplomb. At last, a single gingered brow lifts.

“You cut your week short, Inspector.” As blandly as the observation is offered, Greg clearly hears the accusatory undercurrent.

“Molly’s having a bit of a hard time. I got worried and thought I’d be better off here with her.”

The only alteration to Mycroft’s expression is the slightest purse of thin lips, but it’s enough, and Greg knows immediately his explanation hasn’t been bought.

“John had a bit of a setback too,” he finally admits at last.

“Oh?”

The flicker in the elder Holmes’ blue gaze makes Greg uneasy. He turns to the window, studies the airport traffic honking around them.

“Yeah… After the first day it didn’t seem like he was feeling up to company, really.”

“So sorry to hear that,” Mycroft’s voice rolls out a cultured concern not matched by his expression. “I do worry about dear Dr. Watson. Terrible business. Even now, it must still be hard to come back from.

“Do you know what precipitated his recent difficulties?”

He does. Greg can still see the incident play out in his mind with cinematic clarity, but somehow it doesn’t feel right to share this. Mycroft reads his hesitation in an instant.

“You will recall, Inspector, this is why I fund these little holidays of yours… And it’s not as if I’ve asked you to read their diaries. No digging for dark secrets… Just, simple observations. ”

“Uh, yeah…” Greg rubs the back of his silvered head. “Remind me again why it is you can’t go check on your brother and his mate yourself.”

“Unfortunate sibling issues. Tedious, really.” Mycroft gives a wave of one pale hand and in light of his previous stillness the simple motion seems quite dramatic. “Sherlock’s notorious for holding a grudge. He also seems to think I have somehow disrespected Dr. Watson.

“He’s become ever so protective of him since the rescue. Makes the most absurd threats about how he might behave if I were to approach either of them.

“That’s what makes you little reports so helpful.” The smile flashed is far too tight. “I must say it assuages my concerns immensely.”

“Right… Well about these ‘visits’…”

Mycroft’s eyes widen incrementally in a show of interest as he waits for Lestrade to continue.

“With the baby coming and all, I don’t think I’ll be traveling much anymore.”

What Greg’s really saying is that he wants out. He’s no longer willing to participate in their arrangement, despite how banal most of the information he provides generally is. It was different early days when he deemed the danger of Sherlock relapsing still likely.

But now…

Understanding this, as impossible as it might seem, Mycroft’s spine stiffens. His gaze narrows and pins the Inspector where he sits.

“Oh, I disagree.”

There’s a pause to allow the import of these words to sink in. What follows is said slowly, each syllable sculpted.

“You’ll be retired, soon. Have all the time in the world to travel, though I know you’ll be spending a good amount of it with your growing family. In fact, perhaps next holiday you should take them with you.”

Mycroft widens his smile enough to show teeth. “That way you won’t have to worry about their _well-being_ in your absence.

“Of course, your stipend would be increased to accommodate. After all, you must already be concerned with how you’ll manage on your pension. Even with your new Mrs. Lestrade working for now… I’ve been told that these days children are quite expensive, even when they’re blessedly healthy.”

Color spills into Greg’s cheeks at the bribe; simultaneously his eyes flash darker at the threat. He’s about to lash out at both when the slightest tilt of Mycroft’s head stills him. The way the elder Holmes observes him, head cocked, is very avian.

But his eyes…

Vulture or prey-bird, Greg can’t determine, but either way he has just been acutely reminded of who precisely it is he’s dealing with. Like a pricked balloon he deflates, exhaling a hiss. Broad shoulders slump back in to the seat behind him

“Dogs.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It was dogs that set John off.”

Surrender has made his mouth bitter and Greg spits out his words. “We were out on a trail; a lady’s big mutts got away from her. Gave John a bit of a fright.”

Incredibly aware of his understatement here, he'd never seen anything like it. How fearless Captain John Watson reacted, down on the ground, a moment later strangely raising his hips.

 _Almost as if he expected…_  He pushes the terrible thought aside, knowing still the memory of it’s going to haunt him for ages.

“Took a tumble in the process. Got himself a bit bunged up.”

“Oh my. I do hope Dr. Watson wasn’t too damaged.”

Greg’s struck by the particularity of this language, the horrible irony in it. The wings of a subtle smirk flutter at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth and for the first time the inspector truly understands Sherlock’s determination for distance.

“John’s a good man. Take more than a couple dogs and a nasty fall to keep him down.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Mycroft beams at his answer and something just under the skin of the expression makes Lestrade’s stomach twist in revulsion.

“We done here?”

“I’m happy to have you delivered home, Inspector.”

Without knowing fully what he’s been participating in, Greg understands enough now. His gut is sour with conviction and all he wants is to get out of the car, away from Sherlock’s warped older brother.

“Nah, I’m alright. I’ll catch a cab. Just let me off here.”

While he’s not entirely sure of what he expects, a surge of relief washes over him when Mycroft complies without argument. Pale knuckles tap on the dividing glass and moments later he finds himself and his luggage deposited on an unknown curb.

The sky opens and light mist drifts down. Waving, trying to attract a taxi, Greg Jambs his other hand in his coat he feels his phone. He stifles the urge to call Sherlock and apologize: Mycroft would undoubtedly know if he did and he thinks he’s done enough damage already.

Free from the tiresome Inspector, in the solitude of his mobile office, Mycroft glows. While he’s sorry that he missed the show and laments the dearth of CCTV in Italy, that his arranged disruption had such an effect fills him with incredible pleasure.

It’s so good to know that “pet John” still lingers so close to the surface.

It was never his intention for Sherlock to find his beloved doctor. However, in the end it’s actually worked out far better than Mycroft could have imagined. For while Sherlock’s mad search for John leashed his brother to him, having John back has only made the tether tighter... Shorter, despite the fact it now spans countries.

 _Seems like a good time to move them again._ Where he has them now, Sherlock’s begun traipsing about solving crimes once more. Mycroft ponders and then smirks. _Yes,_ _I think I’ll send them back to Paris._ Sorting through his mental list, he creates a new set of tasks for France. There are things Sherlock can do for him there.

Besides, the language barrier and the throng of the city won’t make things easy on his brother’s tender, pet soldier, especially now, it sounds. And as long as John’s kept off balance Sherlock is generally too preoccupied to get into much trouble.

It’s been a relief these last five years, precarious as their positions are, being able to direct his little brother’s activities and not having to worry so much what he’s into.

Yes, John Watson’s been Sherlock’s most manageable addiction yet.

Consideration of addictions lead Mycroft’s thoughts further on to “fixes.” One corner of his mouth quirks upwards: it’s been a complicated day, and he decides he deserves one. Settling back in his seat, he opens his phone and treats himself to one of his favorite videos. The volume is low, but within the car’s soundproof bubble, its plush interior suddenly fills with growls and the rough cries of a broken throat.

Long fingers adjust tailored pantlegs as Mycroft swells and sighs at the sights and sounds on his mobile.

* * *

Two weeks later, Mycroft stares out the window from inside a majestic Swiss retreat. The world beyond the panes is white and he revels in the purity of it. He hums contentedly. He’d spent weeks reviewing the location. It’s isolated, secured, and impossibly safe.

A vigorous flame crackles and pops in the massive hearth, casting so much heat into the palatial bedroom Mycroft's barely aware he’s naked. He slicks long fingers down newly-showered skin, pleased by the smoothness. In the sitting room, beyond the closed door, he can hear Anthea moving about, getting everything ready. He reflects on how fortunate he is to have such a discreet and adaptable second as he pops the cap on a hi-grade, silicone lube and begins to tease open his freshly-waxed hole.

Once he’s through tickling and teasing himself for the moment, Mycroft moves over to a massive desk. His laptop sits here dwarfed by dark wood. A couple careful taps with his non-slicked fingers calls up hacked CCTV footage from the Charles de Gaulle, where Sherlock and John are de-planing.

Sherlock looks fierce, John, shrunken and stiff. Mycroft “tsks” even as he smiles.

Pleased to know that things are taken care of with his brother, he clicks out of the feed and into his video library. There’s particularly vivid footage of John being taken in his former owner’s garden that he loves to warm up to. They were still tying the doctor up then, and by the tenth dog it’s only the strapping holding their fucked-out pet up at all.

The images roll as Mycroft works a slender tail plug into himself.

Watson looks so beautiful collared and crawling. Contrasting these with the earlier image of the former pup leaving the plane today, Mycroft considers, and not for the first time, the truth of his words to John at the party, before Sherlock swept in.

 _How lucky John is to have experienced his animal potential so fully._ As he fastens the buckle of the collar around his neck, Mycroft’s chest twists with a dark envy.

What would it be like to have to think of nothing but making one’s master happy? No responsibility except to be an open vessel, waiting for one’s stud to fill him? Not to have to worry about corrupt regimes, or terrorists, or living in constant wait for the thin thread of sanity still holding the world together to be snapped by the act of a single mad person?

His pale eyes dart back to the screen and Mycroft locks the cockcage onto himself before he swells any fuller. He wonders if the good doctor would feel complimented to know that no matter how many times he’s watched these videos, John’s effect on him is still almost instantaneous.

_Likely not, and more’s the pity._

Picking up the black leather mitts that sit next to his laptop, he sighs.

Maybe this time he’ll reach the same place of purity John attained. He doubts it will happen, but it’s something to strive for. Folding his knees, Mycroft lowers himself to the floor. Setting his mitts between his teeth he crawls over to the door and scratches on it lightly.

As he waits, his cock aches against the bars of its cage. A soft whimper spills from his throat, hearing Anthea approach. When she opens the door, she’s a vision. Stiletto heels, and black garters, her curvaceous form exaggerated by the ebony corset she wears. But that’s not what really causes Mycroft’s cock to weep.

No.

It’s the thick, black strap-on, hung low on her hips, its base flared in a massive knot.

Anthea's dark eyes glitter, outlined starkly by the dog’s head hood she’s wearing. Custom-made to fit her specifically, the black leather is impeccably crafted. The snout of it even moves as she speaks.

“Is my little bitch ready to come out?”

Mycroft sits back on his haunches. Hips wiggle. The eager thump of his rubber tail on the polished wood floor answers.

* * *

 

Sometime later out in the front room Anthea has settled into a plush armchair, legs draped over its thickly padded arms. Mycroft kneels before her spread thighs.

A refined animal after all, having been mitted up by his queen-stud earlier, he’d been handfed rare cheeses and lapped fine wine from a sterling bowl. Now he licks even more eagerly at the glistening spread flesh below Anthea’s heavy, silicone knot. Above, Anthea pants in pleasure, one hand tight in his thin, ginger hair, urging him on. Marvel that she is, able to imbibe even wearing her mask, her other hand swirls the last little bit of wine still left in her glass.

Once she comes, she’ll strap him into the breeding bench installed not ten feet from the chair and fuck her bitch until he bleeds. Mycroft hears her getting close. He increases his attentions though he’s already been so vigorous he’s lightheaded.

He’s so intent on his task it takes him a minute to realize what’s happening when the glass suddenly slips from her fingers, shattering on the floor beside him.

Pulling back, Mycroft gazes stupidly at the sight of his queen. Eyes closed, head lolling, Anthea is clearly unconscious. It’s only then that Mycroft realizes he’s not light-headed because of his oral enthusiasm: he’s been drugged.

His consciousness slips from him before his heart even has the chance to quicken.

* * *

 When he comes to, Mycroft’s pulse pounds just as severely as his temples. A quick glance around tells him he’s far from his retreat. Somewhere, he’s in a private plane hanger, gagged, trussed, and still naked. Unable to turn around, he tenses hearing footsteps approaching.

A long-fingered hand strokes down his arm, setting him shivering. But it’s the voice that sounds behind him that truly looses his trembling.

“You work too hard, Brother. It’s obviously taking a toll on you. Otherwise you would have never been so sloppy.”

Though Mycroft knows exactly who’s speaking, his eyes still goggle when Sherlock steps around before him.

“Yes, I know. You saw John and me in Paris earlier. I won’t ruin the surprise of how I managed it, other than to say that modern technology is a wonder.

“It will give you something to ponder on your extended, or should I say, “permanent” vacation. Though how much time you’ll have to dwell on such things, I’m unsure. It seems likely to me you’ll be kept _very_ occupied.”

Loosing muffled yells around his gag, Mycroft stills suddenly when he sees Sherlock pull a capped syringe from his pocket.

“Don’t worry Mycroft, both your queens, Queen England and Queen Anthea, will be well attended to.”

Following Sherlock’s dark-headed nod, Mycroft sees Anthea, still unconscious and similarly trussed lying on a gurney as two men, one tall and one broad, carry her into the waiting plane.

The distraction gives Sherlock just enough time. Mycroft roars at the pinch when the needle goes into his throat. He continues to rage, but, like turning down the dial on the radio, the muffled volume of his cries dwindles until there’s no sound but his ragged breathing.

“Don’t worry. It’s not permanent. Not like John’s was. But it will keep that mouth of yours quiet for about a month, at least.”

Sherlock’s eyes are cold as steel as he stares his brother down. “You can tell all your dirty secrets to your new owner then.

“Or…

“Maybe you’ll find you enjoy your new life so much you don’t want to…” Sherlock caps the empty syringe and puts it back into a pocket of his great-coat.

Eyes filling with frustrated tears Mycroft’s attention is diverted when a dapper, older man exits the plane. As he draws up alongside Sherlock, his eyes rake over Mycroft’s body appraisingly.

“Ah, Mycroft… this is your new owner.” Sherlock turns to the man. “I still feel badly for taking your money. I mean, he’s old and rather fat.”

“Well, I am a firm believer that one _can_ teach an old dog new tricks.” The man’s voice is slow and rich, a lazy Texas drawl. “And my studs will whip her into shape soon enough.

It’s monstrous to Mycroft, given his situation, these words are still able to send blood pulsing into his limp and still caged cock.

“I’ll have to make sure the boys know to keep up with the sunscreen though. Sun’s hot in Texas and I won’t want that pretty hide burning.”

A warm hand is run down Mycroft’s flank and he’d moan if he could.

“Yeah, I want her in good condition. Plan to have her around for a long time. My philosophy is _studs come and go,_ but when I take on a bitch _, it’s till death do we part_ , you know.”

Sherlock nods in agreement before speaking again. “Ah, excuse me. I know you’re eager to head off, but may I have another moment here? Alone.”

“Of course,” The man extends his hand along with an easy American smile. “Good doing business with you, Mr. Sherringford.” He dips his head at Mycroft and winks. “See you inside, Sweetheart.”

Mycroft stares helplessly up at his brother.

*“I’ve thought long and hard about this,” Sherlock says, ruffling Mycroft’s hair, his expression grave. “But unless I can get John back to London, I don’t think he’s going survive much longer. And I can’t have that.

"You understand, don’t you Mycroft?”

“I could have just killed you, but fratricide's boring and I honestly think you’ll be better off here. I really do. In fact, once you’re settled, I’m sure you’ll grow to be quite happy with your new master.”

Sherlock lifts Mycroft’s head and rubs his thumb over his brother’s cheek, still filmed with Anthea’s juices and now his own saliva.

“I mean, look at you, Mycroft. You’re not normal.

"Be honest with yourself, you’ve been craving this for ages. And perhaps not right now, but in a few months, once you’ve been lucky enough to experience this fully; you’ll probably want to thank me, actually.”

A tight smile stretches Sherlock’s face. “It’s all for the best. For everyone involved.

“You’ve never done anything but excel, Brother, in anything you’ve undertaken. So, I know you’ll become the best pet you can be for your owner. And that’s your mission now. From me.

"Be a good boy, and you’ll reap the rewards."

Mycroft blinks in wonder, hearing his own words twisted and parroted back to him. Sherlock leans over and whispers in his ear. “They had cameras outdoors at that party too.”

A cool kiss is pressed to his sweating forehead.

"Good luck.”*

Tears blur his brother’s back as Mycroft watches Sherlock walk away.

* * *

 John looks up from table and his eyes catch the clock.

He taps the tabletop and a dozen pair of young eyes look up at him. _Time to clean up_ , he signs.

There's a flutter of complaining hands and some groans, but eventually the children begin to pick up their things. Pens and crayons go back in their appropriate boxes. Tacks are passed out and the days’ masterpieces go up on the wall.

Before they leave the art room John makes sure that each child feels acknowledged. He sends them off glowing whenever he can. Even the ones that are still so close to their darkness tend to burn a bit brighter after spending an afternoon with him.

Though he’s only been volunteering at the children’s trauma center for three months now, he’s already become a favorite among staff and patients alike. The children gravitate to him in part because of his silence and because he allows them their own. But, though it's never discussed, they also seem to recognize his kinship in their suffering.

He walks with a couple of children to the center’s lobby where anxious guardians are undoubtedly waiting. There’s hope that both girls will someday speak again, but for now, having finally learned sign-language, John’s happy to be able to “listen” to their animated hand conversations.

Seeing Sherlock in the lobby immediately distracts him, however. He shoots his detective a pleased but puzzled look and then spends the next ten minutes hard-pressed not to go up to him, before every one of his group is bundled up and off.

“Finished early,” Sherlock hums, watching John slip into his coat. “Of course, it wasn’t all that difficult a case.”

John raises his brow at this and his eyes hold a slight challenge.

“No truly! I would have gotten it two days ago if that idiotic new DI hadn’t gotten in my way.” Sherlock huffs an indignant snort. “Damn inconsiderate of Greg to refuse to come out of retirement.”

As they leave the center and step out into the crisp air, John pulls out his mobile since Sherlock, who learned to sign in half the time, still prefers texting. _Speaking of.. Greg and Molly want to know if we’re available for supper Saturday._

Sherlock reads the message on his own phone and frowns. “Well, unless there’s another case.” He quirks a brow at John. “And as long as they don’t expect me to eat.”

As London buzzes around them, John can’t help but smile at this.

He types out, _And they’ve asked for you keep the chemistry set at home this time. They’ve requested that you wait until Shelly’s at_ _least_ _five before starting her up on experimenting._

This garners another snort from Sherlock. “Dull!… I don’t know why parents are so determined to stifle their children.”

_Sherlock, she's not even a year yet._

"Exactly my point. She's like a little sponge right now... Just waiting to soak up useful information."

John would ask if this included things like the order of the solar system, but that joke grew old years past.

Together they cross the street, ironically, John with his false feet doggedly dodging puddles with careful steps, while Sherlock strides right through them. Both draw up, stilled for a moment when a black sedan pulls in front of them. However, it doesn’t stop, but keeps slowly rolling off down the street.

Heartbeat continuing to gallop several minutes after the car is gone, John jumps when Sherlock places a hand on his arm.

“I told you he’s gone, John.” Sherlock’s voice is rich in its surety. “We don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

John nods.

He’s never asked how Sherlock knows this, or what his detective has done. He doesn’t want to know. What he does understand is that they’ve been back in London a year now and nothing has happened to indicate the contrary. Plus, he's hardly had a nightmare in months and none have been _that_ one. That’s enough for him.

So he pushes thoughts of black cars and dark operatives away from his mind. It’s easier to do than it used to be. And perhaps his ignorance is selfish, but he’s content in his life right now and doesn’t want this tainted. And what’s more, he’s come to truly trust Sherlock.

To show this, he gives Sherlock a smile.

_Hungry?_

“Mmmm, yes, actually. I believe I feel an evening of Thai and crap telly coming on.”

_Mrs. Hudson called and said she’d left a casserole in the oven for us this afternoon._

“You know,” Sherlock’s voice is grave. “I feel that I should be more dismayed than I am at how domestic we’ve become.”

_Would it ease your concern at all if I joined you on a case again?_

Gray eyes widen at this and it pleases John that he can still be unexpected.

“Really?”

_Nothing higher than a five._

“Right. Start off small and work up then. Splendid.” Sherlock flashes a breathtaking smile.

This earns him a light shove from John. But rather than bump back, he reaches out and takes his hand.

In the past, such an open display would have been appalling for either of them. But time has shifted them both. Unable to carry on conversation one-handed, John keeps their connection and slips his mobile into his pocket.

Life is too short and happiness to tenuous to pass up a moment like this.

The silence is comfortable, John’s heart is full, and his breath comes easy as he and Sherlock wend their way home to Baker Street.

 THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, for those of you who might be wondering, I sent Mycroft off to live with the crew that terrorized Sherlock in Fireofangels' fics, "Bitch" & "Bred."
> 
> Thanks you to all of you who have gone on this little journey with me. 
> 
> My appreciation especially goes to all who were moved to leave a comment. I hope you'll consider dropping a line too, and let me know your thoughts on this ending. 
> 
> Now on to the next story!


End file.
